The Merchant's House (32 page)

But something else struck Wesley. Something about this account reminded him so much of the Sharon Carteret case. Four hundred years might divide them but human feelings didn’t change.

He looked across at Pam. She was sleeping and he didn’t want to wake her. He crept downstairs and picked up the phone. It was late, but in view of what he’d learned he had to get in touch with Gerry Heffernan. It would be worth dragging the inspector from his bed to prevent another tragedy.

Elaine Berrisford had never been in such a place before. She hugged her expensive camel coat closer to her. It was cold. She could hear dogs barking. Lights shone in the windows of the old buses and caravans; worn sheets and dirty torn material sufficed as curtains to give the occupants of the vehicles a modicum of privacy. Voices carried in the dark: an argument in one old bus, a guitar being strummed in a caravan.

A baby cried. Elaine froze. But no, it was a young baby; it couldn’t be him. She had left her car at the entrance to the muddy track that led to the site. She stood, watching, listening. He was somewhere here. Where was he?

* * *

Wesley drove down the steep main road into Tradmouth, in second gear all the way. When he reached the waterfront he turned and drove along the Embankment, getting as near as he could to the inspector’s house. Tradmouth was quiet – just a few fishermen on the quayside preparing to set sail in the moonlit night. He walked the last few yards to Heffernan’s house. The lapping of the river and the bobbing of the boats in the moonlight created an atmosphere of serenity; not a night to be considering death and its consequences.

Heffernan was ready. Wesley turned the car round and they headed down the empty country roads to Neston. They reached the lane leading to the site. Her car was there, the Golf GTi: Wesley recognised it from his visit to Hedgerow Cottage. He had admired it then, wondered if he could afford one. This time his mind was on less material matters.

He parked behind the Golf, blocking it in. He hoped they were in time.

Pressed up against the side of a caravan, Elaine had watched and listened, certain that the darkness would conceal her presence. She watched as a young man in a threadbare jumper and woolly hat knocked on the door of the caravan opposite. The door opened and in the rectangle of light she saw him, the man she was looking for. Her heart began to pound. The woolly-hatted youth didn’t go in. Manners was handing him something; the youth was going away; the caravan door was closing. She would wait a few minutes; wait till there was nobody about.

She stood stiffly against the metal wall. Jonathon, she thought, Jonathon was only a few yards away. He would be so pleased to see her, to see his mummy. They would go back to the cottage. He would sleep in her bed. She would watch him tomorrow as he played with all the new toys she had bought him.

She had eliminated one of the obstacles that stood between her and her son. When Sharon had met her on the cliff path, she thought she’d be able to reason with her. But Sharon had rejected her pathetic pleas; had even asked for
more money for Jonathon’s upkeep. Then they had argued. Sharon had said, ‘He’s mine, he can never be yours. He’s not even your husband’s. I did it with Chris, he’s Chris’s kid, you’ve no right to him.’ Then she’d turned away, smiling, smug.

The branch had just been lying there on the ground, thick, solid. Elaine had eliminated that smile, that gloating face, for good – kept eliminating it, blotting it out. Sharon hadn’t been expecting it, had turned her back. It had been so easy.

She had got rid of the branch, thrown it over the cliff, and run back to the cottage. Alan had been there, had seen her clothes splashed with blood. She had had to tell him the truth. He had been so calm. He had burned the clothes in the garden incinerator, moved Sharon’s body to a place where it might not be found for a few days, then held Elaine while she wept.

At one time she had thought she might lose Jonathon for good; that Manners would take him somewhere so she couldn’t trace him. But now she was near him, would soon touch him, hold him in her arms. He would probably be asleep. She would carry him to the car and he would wake up the next morning, with his mother’s loving eyes watching him. She imagined the expression of joy on his little face.

She felt in her pocket. It was still there. The site was quiet. It was time. She emerged from the shadows and walked slowly to Chris Manners’ caravan. She knocked softly on the door, not wanting to wake Jonathon.

A shuffling from inside, then the door was opened; opened wide. He expected his visitor to be friend rather than foe. When he saw Elaine his expression changed to one of panic. He tried to close the door but he had opened it too wide. She was inside. He tried to push her out but she stood firm.

‘I’ve come for Jonathon.’

‘The kid’s mine. Now get out.’

‘Where is he?’ She tried to push past Chris to get to the bedroom beyond.

He blocked her way. ‘You heard me, you stupid bitch. Get out. I can keep him – they said.’

He gave her a push that sent her sprawling to the floor.
Jonathon was beyond that flimsy door. Tm not going without Jonathon.’

‘I told you, I’m his real dad. I’m keeping him. And his name’s Daniel. Now piss off before I get the police.’

He stood, blocking the door to Jonathon. She could tell by the expression on his face that he had no intention of giving way. But a father’s love could never be as great as a mother’s – never. She felt in her pocket; it was still there, comforting. If all else failed …

‘Didn’t you hear me? Piss off. Do you think I’d let you have him when your husband killed his mum?’

She was on her knees, all artifice gone. She uttered a primal sob. ‘I’m his mum.’ Tears streamed down her face.

Chris couldn’t stand this. He turned his back.

He hadn’t expected the sudden lunge, knocking him off balance. Then the sharp pain in his shoulder. He lay stunned and saw the knife flash as it began its downward journey again.

What occurred next seemed to happen in slow motion. His body tensed, expecting the blow. But instead of finding its target, the knife seemed to fly out of Elaine Berrisford’s hand. Chris curled up, shielding his head with his arms. He expected pain but none came. Daniel, he thought, what was going to happen to Daniel? The woman was mad. There was no way he’d let her touch his son.

He looked up, prepared to fight back. But there was no need. Elaine Berrisford was standing, sobbing, held between two men. He recognised them, the inspector and the sergeant, but what the hell were they doing here? He didn’t care too much. He’d never been glad to see the police but now he was.

Another face appeared at the door. Donna had come over to see what all the commotion had been about. Heffernan was pleased to see her. She could stay with the kid while they got Chris to hospital. Chris put his hand to his sore shoulder and felt something warm and sticky. He was bleeding. Someone was saying the ambulance wouldn’t be long.

Chris heard the inspector’s words. ‘Elaine Berrisford, I’m arresting you for the murder of Sharon Carteret. You don’t
have to say anything but …’ At this point Chris lost consciousness. He was unaware of the paramedics lifting him onto the stretcher.

Pam took a bite of toast. She had woken early and, puzzled by her husband’s absence, had decided to make herself some breakfast. She wondered where Wesley was; he usually left a note.

There were things to do, a box of books and record sheets to sort and put in the car. Paperwork, paperwork: like a relentless tide, it never stopped flowing. She had just finished preparing for the day and was about to put the kettle on when she heard Wesley’s key in the door. He came into the kitchen. He looked tired.

‘Where have you been? Were you called out? I didn’t hear the phone.’

‘No. I rang the boss. That diary, the old one; I read it and it was just like history repeating itself, just like the case we’ve been working on. I had an idea so I got in touch with the boss. It turned out I was right. We made an arrest last night and we’ve been questioning her all night.’

‘Her?’

‘The mother of that missing kid. Don’t ask me now. It’s a long story.’

‘Go on, tell me. I’ve got half an hour before I have to set off.’ Pam’s curiosity was aroused.

‘No. Another time.’ Normally he would have recounted the facts in glorious detail if she asked. She looked at her husband enquiringly.

Wesley turned away and put the boiling water in the teapot. Maybe later he’d feel like telling her. But something told him the time wasn’t right; the case was too close to home. Heffernan had asked him how far Pam would go to get a child of her own and he had answered ‘As far as it takes’. Elaine Berrisford had gone as far as it took, and further; the same with Elizabeth Banized four hundred years before. It was best to say nothing for the moment. Pam was noticeably more relaxed. He didn’t want to spoil things now by raising the subject again.

Pam watched him as he got himself some cornflakes. It
was nearly time to set off for school. The kids would be waiting.

Bob Naseby wondered where he had seen the young couple before. Then he remembered. They were the Australians who had found that handbag. The pair of them looked sheepish as they came through the swing doors into the station foyer.

It was the girl who spoke first. ‘Can we see Inspector Heffernan?’ The accent was certainly antipodean. Naseby wondered if they had seen the Test match, England versus Australia, earlier in the year. But then not everyone shared Bob’s passions. He rang the inspector’s office.

A few minutes later, Rachel appeared. She would scarcely have admitted it to herself, but she had often found herself thinking about the male half of the Australian pair. She felt and quickly suppressed a twinge of disappointment that he was still accompanied by that hard-faced Julie.

‘Do you remember us?’ He grinned disarmingly. He really was rather attractive, thought Rachel unprofessionally. She nodded.

‘We’re here to pay that money back.’ He drew some ten-pound notes from the pocket of his jeans. ‘Thirty pounds. We’ve been working in a café in Morbay and we want to be off up north later this week, if that’s okay with your lot.’

Rachel summoned the inspector. She knew he always liked to have the last word. He was in a remarkably good mood.

‘We’ve got someone for the murder,’ he told the pair chattily. ‘And the money’ll come in useful ‘cause the murdered girl’s got a little kid. I’ll make sure his dad gets it.’ He completed the sentence in his head: and hope he doesn’t blow it all on the favourite in the 4.30 at Newton Abbot.

He shook hands with Dave and Julie and told them they were free to go and stood with Rachel, smiling benevolently, as they disappeared through the swing doors out into the street.

Rachel yawned. She was tired, having sat in on the interview with Elaine Berrisford the previous night. After the
doctor had given her a sedative, Elaine had fallen asleep in her cell; Rachel had to carry on.

‘Get over to Neston, will you, Rach. See how Chris Manners is. They let him out of hospital this morning; seems he wasn’t badly hurt. Give Chris the money, will you, and see if Stan Jenkins wants to go with you. He might like to see the kid’s okay.’

He returned to his office and sat back in his imitation leather executive swivel chair, contemplating life. He decided he would treat himself to a sail that afternoon, weather and tides permitting.

He summoned Wesley into his presence and studied his sergeant as he sat down. ‘Credit where credit’s due, Wes. You did a bloody good job last night. What’s all this about a journal?’

Wesley explained patiently. ‘It just seemed to fit in. Elizabeth Banized murdered the real mother of her child when she threatened to take him back. It got me thinking – there’s nothing that the mother of any species won’t do to keep its young.’

‘Kipling – the female of the species is deadlier than the male.’ Heffernan looked pleased with himself for remembering a literary quote. They usually went out of his head at the appropriate moment. ‘Good thinking. You’ll be after my job next. I’ll have to watch meself,’ he added mischievously.

‘What’ll happen to the kid, sir? Are they going to let him stay with Manners?’

‘It’s all up to Social Services. There’ll be reports and what have you. I reckon there’s a good chance, if our friend Manners can get his act together. It might be just what he needs, a bit of responsibility. Do you fancy coming sailing this afternoon, Wes? Thought I might give the
Rosie May
a quick run …’

Wesley, feeling queasy already, made his excuses and left.

Rachel made a cup of tea. The caravan kitchen was cramped and none too clean, but she thought she’d better show willing. She looked across at Chris Manners, who was sitting mournfully with his arm in a sling. Then found a cloth and
started wiping surfaces. She was a good person to have around in a crisis.

Stan Jenkins sat opposite Chris, watching the child, who sat beside his dad reading a book that produced alarming electronic noises when a set of buttons was pressed. He had bought it for the boy, thinking he’d better not come empty-handed. Chris had been quite welcoming once Stan had explained his involvement in the case. The atmosphere when Rachel handed round the chipped mugs full of steaming tea was positively cosy.

‘I’m just so glad to see him alive,’ Stan said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I had a case once when a child went missing and he was found dead in a river. I’ll never forget his parents’ faces. I’ve got to admit I feared the worst for Jonathon … sorry, Daniel.’ There was emotion in his voice. ‘I’ve got three kids of my own. They’re nearly grown up now but you can’t help thinking …’